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Henry approached the Devil’s Den just in time for dinner, though his stomach roiled at the thought of ingesting anything. He’d been gone only a few days, having taken Pebbles and Mutt along to hopefully secure another Kuttenberg Tournament victory, but some time in between winning and leaving the city, his head had started to feel like it was full of wool. By the time he returned to the Den, he’d realized it wasn’t mere tiredness, but illness that plagued him.
He was sweating far more than normal as he stabled Pebbles, gifting her the apple he’d been saving for himself. Most of the Devil’s Pack was eating outside. As he trudged past the occupied tables, face red with fever and grimacing in exhaustion, Katherine held her arm out abruptly to stall his path.
“Henry! You’re back and you haven’t even said hello? What’s gotten into you?” Her voice was cheerful yet stern. She’d been in a terrible mood when Henry had last seen her, so he felt compelled to stop next to her now, even as his bones ached with weariness.
“Hello, Katherine.”
…He couldn’t even bring any other words from his lips, head swimming.
Katherine put her spoon down, face hardening with the kind of motherly concern that often came out angry. “Wow, you sound like utter shit. What happened while you were gone?”
Henry cleared his throat, noticing how scratchy and sore it felt. Žižka, the only other person sitting at the table, turned his full attention towards him. Great.
“Nothing much. Won a tournament, stopped a few men from thieving… Uh, sold some old gear I had laying around.” He coughed as he finished, the sound harsh with congestion.
Katherine grimaced in disgust. “Right. So, you’re just sick, then.”
“I… reckon so, aye,” Henry nodded, sending a worried glance to Žižka. Even in this state, he felt the dreadful anticipation of being sent on more errands. Henry, there are bandits in the forest to the south. Henry, we think some of Sigismund’s soldiers were sighted near Pschitoky. Henry, we’ve run out of boar meat. Sometimes he felt like a dog being asked to fetch, and he wasn’t exactly in the mood for that now.
Žižka looked exasperated, and Henry feared another command, but then he sighed. “You lads don’t know how to take care of yourselves. Rest up, Henry. No more outings until you don’t sound so wretched.”
Henry opened his mouth to thank the commander, but halted as an enthusiastic voice called out to them.
“Henry! You’re back!”
Hans Capon strode towards them, bowl of soup in hand, and Henry’s body flooded with a different kind of warmth.
His lover—Henry kept having to remind himself, they were more than just best friends now—had begged to accompany him to Kuttenberg, but after much arguing, they’d decided it was best for Henry to go alone. Hans had still been recovering from a sprained ankle, courtesy of their last ‘hunting trip,’ and Henry had been adamant in keeping him off his feet. After realizing how annoying it would be to have his page coddling him the whole way to Kuttenberg and back, Hans let him go with a kiss and a shove.
Henry studied the way Hans settled his weight on that ankle; it seemed healed now, at least. He breathed out, finally smiling for the first time in hours. It was a relief to see Hans again. Since they’d given into their feelings and started exploring the new depths of their relationship, any day he was apart from Hans felt torturous. His absence had felt like a ghost trailing at his back, ever-present.
He stepped towards Hans, but his lord moved quicker and was already at his side, grinning excitedly. They couldn’t be too open with their affections around others, but Henry still reached out a hand to pat Hans’s back in greeting. Maybe it landed a bit too near his waist, and maybe Hans grabbed his wrist to keep him there longer, but… Henry couldn’t just abruptly pull away—not when Hans was gazing at him with those pretty, blue eyes.
Žižka cleared his throat. Henry realized he probably should be the one to say something.
“I just arrived. I was victorious in the tournament, my lord! Just as you wished.”
Hans smiled, but it faltered, his brows lowering in concern. “Hal, your voice sounds awful. And you look more wretched than usual. What happened?”
“He caught some nasty sickness from the city, that’s all,” Katherine offered, peering at them in a strangely serious way. Henry removed his hand from Hans’s back. “Want me to get something for your throat, Henry? Or go get Musa to look at you?”
Before Henry could answer, Hans cut in, waving a hand through the air. “Don’t worry your beautiful head over it—I’ll take care of him. Come along, peasant!” The way he said peasant, lacking the scorn it’d had before, made Henry bite back a laugh.
Hans made his way back inside the tavern without even acknowledging Žižka, and Henry could only send an apologetic smile and nod to him and Katherine before following his lord. Mutt stayed outside, already begging for scraps which he no doubt would receive, at least from Janosh.
“Hungry, Hal?” Hans tilted his head back to glance at him as he led them to the kitchen.
“Not at all, actually… Just tired.” Now that he was home—at the Devil’s Den, yes, but more importantly, with Hans—exhaustion was quickly overcoming him, his eyes drooping.
Hans raised his eyebrows in surprise, setting his bowl down on the kitchen counter. “That might’ve been the first time I’ve ever heard you say no to dinner! You must be feeling truly awful… Let’s go upstairs and get you comfortable.”
“Sir Hans…!” Henry called after him as he followed, his lord already making his way up the stairs. “You’re not going to eat? I didn’t mean to interrupt dinner—”
“I’ll eat when you’re resting. The food isn’t going anywhere.”
“But—”
“Don’t give your lord backtalk, Henry.”
Henry sighed. He wasn’t used to being taken care of, especially not by his lord… But Hans was more than just his lord, now. And it was endearing to see him so eager to attend to Henry. Different, but nice. It made his face feel warm, not just from the fever.
Once Hans had helped remove his armor and settle him in bed, though, it became clear that the nobleman had no idea how to treat a fever. Not that Henry expected him to, the ‘Bellator’ he was. Still, Hans refused to eat until his page was treated, so Henry talked him through which potion to grab from his chest, then instructed him to get water and rags to cool his skin.
Finally resting with his layers of armor gone, Henry realized how hot he truly felt, sweat dripping down his temples. Hans laid damp, cool cloths on his forehead and bare chest, and he groaned lowly in relief. When he looked over at his lover, Hans’s eyes appeared determined but worried. The vision of his lord kneeling by his bedside and playing nursemaid to him had his heart beating faster.
“You know… You don’t have to do this,” Henry murmured. “I know you’re worried, but Katherine or Musa would’ve been happy to help—”
“I don’t want them to have to take care of you, though,” Hans bit back, mouth twisting. “I want to be the one to do it. Is that so hard to believe?”
“N-No, it’s not, not at all.” Henry hadn’t wanted to offend his friend. He knew Hans cared, deep down, even if he couldn’t always show it. “I just don’t want you to lower yourself for my sake, that’s all.”
Hans paused, like it hadn’t occurred to him. After a second, the corner of his mouth turned up. “It’s not lowering myself when it’s you, Hal. I thought you knew that.”
The heat returned to Henry’s head as he blushed. Hans was rendering him speechless more and more often, these days.
“…Aye. Will you eat now, then? I’m all taken care of and resting, as you can see.” Henry raised his arms a bit to make his point.
Hans rose to his feet, giving his legs a stretch. “Yes, yes, I’ll eat. But I’m bringing you a bowl of broth, too, at least. I’ll ask Katherine what would be bland enough for your stomach, if that would make you happier.”
“…A-Alright.”
Henry watched as his lord left the room, then hit himself for not thanking him. He made sure to express his gratitude profusely when Hans showed back up with two bowls.
By the end of the night, Henry’s fever still hadn’t abated much, nor did his appetite return. Hans was concerned, but Henry assured him that it was normal—sicknesses weren’t cured in a matter of hours, usually. His fever would hopefully break as he slept.
After Hans stripped for sleep, Henry expected him to go to his own bed by the door, but instead the young nobleman returned to where he lay, looking sheepish.
Henry raised an eyebrow as his lover sat at his bedside. “Hans… I don’t think I’m up for our nighttime activities in this state, I’m afraid.”
It had become a constant—them, exploring and learning each other’s bodies as the rest of the Devil’s pack slept, taking care to not be too loud. Henry wasn’t complaining, by any means. Hans was so intoxicating; any day they were apart, Henry thought about it, dreamt about it. But he was responsible enough to know that he shouldn’t consider it a possibility tonight.
Hans huffed a short laugh, his cheeks pinkening. “Henry, do you take me for a lecherous dog? As much as I’d enjoy touching your pizzle right now, I know not to expect that from you when you’re so ill you sound like a bleating mare.”
Henry’s eyes widened. Even in jest, hearing Hans talk about ‘touching his pizzle’ did something to him. How he said such things so effortlessly without being in the throes of passion, Henry still didn’t know. Such words still didn’t come naturally to Henry, unless they were actively having sex.
Paying his reaction no mind, Hans continued in a lower voice, “No, I’m not asking that, just… I like that we, well, fall asleep together. And… And hold each other, at night. Can’t we just do that? Without the sex, this time.”
Henry tilted his head, the now dry cloth falling from it. Hans’s words made him dizzy with happiness. Maybe that was the fever, but still. He held back a chuckle, not wanting to embarrass his lord.
“You mean… Cuddling?”
Hans gaped for a moment, the pink on his face darkening. “Well, I wouldn’t call it that—”
“You’re asking to cuddle with me, Hans.”
“Henry—”
“And I’d love to, but—” Henry hurried, not interested in whatever excuses his friend was about to make, “—I have to say no. I’d just get you sick, wouldn’t I? You’d wake up with a fever tomorrow.”
Hans huffed, crossing his arms. “That’s not a guarantee, Henry. And even if I did get sick, so what? It’s not any deathly illness. I’d be better in a few days, just like you will be!”
“Are you yanking my pizzle right now? I don’t want you catching this, Hans. You have a perfectly fine bed over there—” Which hasn’t been used in weeks, Henry thought but didn’t say. “—Just go lay in it, and tomorrow night we’ll be able to cuddle all we want and more. Doesn’t that sound better than you waking up all snotty and sweaty in the morning?”
Though Hans was pursing his lips in frustration, Henry knew he’d already won. It was endearing, Hans’s request, and a part of him wanted to give into it. But a much larger part of him didn’t want Hans sick because of him. That part also knew Hans would be an annoying cunt about it, complaining and blaming Henry for his pitiful state all the while.
As he’d thought, Hans sighed, lowering his arms. “Fine. But, if I can’t fall asleep in an hour, I’m climbing right in there with you, got that? I’ve grown accustomed to it now and have been without it for days since you left. Making me suffer even longer is quite rude of you, you know.”
Henry smirked at his theatrics, his eyes following him as he retreated to his ‘side’ of the room. “Sure, my lord. My apologies.”
It was sweet, the idea that Hans couldn’t sleep well without Henry at his side, but surely it was an exaggeration. They were in the same room, at least, and that would have to do. Once the room was dark and silent, Henry drifted to sleep, fatigue quickening the process.
…He awoke sluggishly, some time later, as a knee pressed into his abdomen. He grunted, shifting over instinctively, and a body took advantage of the opened space, pressing against his heated skin. Henry lifted an arm to wrap around Hans’s back, easily recognizing those long legs shuffling between his own and the smell of lavender soap from the hair tickling his face.
“…Mm, Hans?” he mumbled, half of his face still pressed into the pillow. He hadn’t broken the fever yet, head feeling stuffy and clogged.
“I couldn’t sleep with you right over here,” his lover whispered, face pressed against his neck, just below his ear. They were facing each other, Hans eager to intertwine each part of their bodies despite Henry’s sweaty stickiness.
Henry thought, in whatever part of his mind that wasn’t slowly being overtaken by sleep again, that he should insist on Hans sleeping in his own bed. The young lord would wake up sick and miserable like this, no doubt. But his skin felt delightfully cool against Henry’s, like a healing balm soothing the fire in his blood. And Henry felt more at peace with the weight of him in his arms. Refusing now would feel profane.
He mumbled something incoherent, pressing a barely-there kiss to Hans’s hair before succumbing to sleep once again. The inevitable complaints he’d hear in the morning were something for tomorrow’s Henry to deal with.